Good Friends
by Penguin
Summary: Harry and Hermione have always been the best of friends. This causes Hermione more pain than Harry will ever know. Or perhaps his casual cruelty indicates that he does know. (HHr, unrequited. HD.)


Disclaimer:  
This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Warning: References to slash.

Author: Penguin

GOOD FRIENDS  
  
  
In her own way, Hermione has loved Harry ever since she first saw him, on the Hogwarts Express when they were eleven. She knew, without being able to articulate it, that there was something singular, precious and shining about the boy with the sellotaped glasses, something completely unique that she would never find in another human being; wizard or Muggle. It wasn't the fact that he was Harry Potter, either. Or, yes – it was exactly that. That he was Harry Potter. He. Himself. Not that he was The Boy Who Lived. Even without that scar on his forehead, he would have been special; he would still have been the only person in the world who could shake her to the core just by turning his eyes on her and smile.   
  
She has also known, always known, that he will never see her as anything but a friend. A close friend, a very dear friend, someone to confide in and run to for comfort and sensible words when the world has bruised him, but still only a friend.  
  
Oh, he touches her, but it's all casual and superficially affectionate in the way you are affectionate with a kitten. He hugs her and holds her and kisses her cheek or her hair, and sometimes he cups his hand around the back of her neck underneath her hair in a way that makes her draw a sharp breath while making sure he doesn't notice her doing it. When he holds her and laughs softly above her head, she leans her head on his shoulder and pretends for a painful second, painful because she is acutely aware of endulging in fantasies, that this is the embrace of a lover. And then he breaks up the hug in a rather brisk way, and she half expects him to send her on her way with a little slap on her back, like a foal sent off to its mother.  
  
Being held close to Harry like that brings Hermione more agony than pleasure, and she wants him to stop hugging her, but she never asks him to stop. Because not being hugged would be even worse, she thinks. She isn't quite sure, but she is not willing to risk it.  
  
In her own way, she hates him, too. She hates him for making her love him simply by existing.  
  
  
* * *   
  
  
Once, when they were both rather drunk, he a little more than she, they came very close to having sex. They were at a big party, Harry asked her to dance, he held her with warm hands and laughed at his own inability to keep his feet off hers. Finally he just danced her out on the terrace and stopped there and didn't let her go. They stood in the warm darkness holding each other, just outside the rectangles of golden light that fell out on the terrace from the high windows. It was late August and the crickets were chirping and singing their odd little song from trees and high grass. Hermione leant her head against Harry's chest and wondered what was going to happen, if anything at all, and if something did, whether she would dare let it happen.  
  
They stood there for a long time without speaking or moving, but then Harry's hands began to wander slowly up and down her back. She closed her eyes and felt warm little tremors of electricity spread from his fingers through her body, tingling at the back of her neck and sending rays of heat to her nipples. He was silent but she could feel his breathing quicken; she had her ear to his chest and could hear the way his heart started racing. She wanted more; she wanted to be closer; she caressed his back underneath his jacket and pressed her face to his neck. When he didn't stop her but only held her closer, her fingers fumbled with his shirt as she boldly pulled it up from his trousers. She slid her hands in under it, up along his sides and his back, up his spine, counting vertebrae, tracing his ribs and trembling at the fantastic smoothness and warmth of his skin.   
  
He still didn't stop her. His fingers caressed the back of her neck, entangled themselves in her hair, slowly slid down the side of her neck and followed her collar bone to her shoulder. She closed her eyes and failed to hold back a very soft moan. His fingertips stayed where they were, and she could feel his hesitation – she knew he wanted to push the shoulder straps of her dress off her shoulders but didn't quite dare. Was it really possible he didn't know how much she wanted him to?  
  
Her palms slid over his warm stomach, up over his chest; she ran her fingers across his nipples and felt a tremor go through his body. She wanted to play with them and didn't dare; she ran her fingers over them again and then down his sides.   
  
He lifted his chin and let her kiss his neck. It was the first time her lips had met his skin for more than two seconds – she had kissed him sisterly on the cheek, but never kissed him like this. She loved the warm, intimate smell of him. She wanted to taste him; she let the tip of her tongue draw a wet little pattern of circles just below his ear.  
  
He moaned, and she felt his moan like heat at the pit of her stomach. His hands slid down her back again. She sucked his earlobe. His hands pushed her shoulder straps down and caressed her bare arms. She was breathing hard and heard a small, pathetic voice at the back of her mind pray that this would go on, that he wouldn't stop her, that he would kiss her back and want her body and allow her to take what she wanted of his.  
  
She tried to kiss his mouth but he wouldn't let her. He wasn't demonstrative; on the contrary. He tried to conceal his unwillingness to let her kiss him by lowering his head to her shoulder and kissing the hollow above her collarbone instead, but she wasn't either stupid or insensitive, and it did hurt a little. He pressed her against him and she could feel his erection. She made a little noise then that was yes and no and I hate you.   
  
He began to kiss and nip and lick at her throat and she could only give in; she was lost in a world that consisted only of his tongue and his lips on her skin. She wanted him so badly. Her breasts wanted his hands. Her own hands wanted to unbutton his trousers.   
  
He was licking the hollow of her throat now, and she was making little noises that she didn't mean to make but couldn't help and he seemed to enjoy. She pulled his hands up from her waist, round to her front; trapped them between her breasts and her own hands. And everything stopped for a second. He was perfectly still. His tongue had stopped fluttering against her skin.  
  
Hermione opened her eyes in panic and thought "_oh no, oh please, I went too far, I've spoiled everything_", but before she had even finished the thought, his mouth began to move along her collarbone again; his hands cupped her breasts gently and his thumbs brushed her nipples. She moaned and bit her lip. She was lost now. He could do anything he wanted.  
  
He pulled her with him around the corner of the house, into the denser darkness under some trees. She followed him. He pulled down her dress and freed her breasts from the strapless bra, and she shivered as her hot skin met the evening air. Then his hand was moulding her right breast while his mouth closed around her left nipple, and the wet hot sensation made her tremble and wail and push her fingers into his hair, refusing to let him go or reconsider.  
  
She wanted to feel him now, touch him, allow him inside her; she wanted him to press her up against the tree trunk, oblivious of spoiling her dress, and push into her.  
  
Then he abruptly let go of her, tucked his shirt into his trousers, wiped the back of a hand across his mouth and said:  
  
"Let's go back inside."  
  
And he left her.  
  
She stood under the tree staring after him, tears of incredulity and humiliation burning her eyes. Sobbing with anger and hurt she shook her breasts back into her bra, adjusted her dress and shoulder straps and ran her fingers through her hair.   
  
When she returned to the big room after a brief visit to the bathroom to check for traces of garden and tears and hands and humiliation, Harry was standing at the other side of the room casually holding a tumbler of firewhiskey and speaking relaxedly to Draco Malfoy.  
  
  
* * *  
  
They have never talked about it afterwards and never once referred to it. As far as Harry is concerned, it seems never to have happened. Hermione hates him for it, as much as she could ever hate him; she hates it that something that continues to haunt her waking and sleeping dreams didn't even stay with him for five minutes.  
  
But she is in love with him and that doesn't just go away, however hurt she is or however much she despises him for what he does. She looks at him and tries to hide the pain in her eyes; she continues to be his sensible friend and lets him come to her for help and comfort, and she even listens patiently and understandingly to his woe when the men of his choice don't return his love.   
  
Because Harry prefers men, and this is why Hermione knows for certain that she will never be more than a friend. This is why she hurts so much she can't sleep unless she curls into a small, pathetic ball. The pain doesn't let her straighten out all night, and she wakes up with arms, legs and neck aching.  
  
It's become even worse since Harry started dating Draco Malfoy. They are so triumphantly public about it.  
  
Hermione has gone as far as asking him could they please show some consideration and exchange their half-encrypted messages in private, but she knows it won't happen – if the exchange was private, why would it need to be encrypted, and if the messages weren't publically exchanged, half-encrypted and easily decipherable by everyone, where would the fun be?  
  
The messages are intended to be deciphered, of course. Everyone is meant to read the hints and references to lovemaking, in-jokes and other intimacies that exist in all relationships. The messages are intended to make people feel excluded.  
  
Hermione has never known Harry to be an exhibitionist before. He has always had far too much attention directed at him to feel the need to seek more. But this is different, and she realises it's a kind of triumph; he wants to show off his happiness to the world and somewhat childishly demonstrate the fact that he has a boyfriend.  
  
Above all, she feels he does it to hurt her. He curls up on the sofa next to her and tells her how much he loves Draco, how sexy he finds Draco and how little sleep they are getting because they can't keep their hands (or their mouths, or their cocks) off each other. While he speaks, he absent-mindedly plays with a strand of her hair, twisting it around his finger and holding his hand so close to her face she can feel the warmth of it radiate against her skin.  
  
She never stops wondering whether his casual cruelty is calculated or unintentional, whether he is aware of it or not. And she never stops waking up at night with her arms wrapped around herself and her face wet with tears, nipples still hot and tingling with the memory from the dream, the memory of Harry's mouth and hands on her breasts in the darkness under the trees.  



End file.
